


December 24

by brunnhildc



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: I said this was gonna be a christmas fic, M/M, but that’s irrelevant, its CUTE and that’s what matters, its not entirely one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 05:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunnhildc/pseuds/brunnhildc
Summary: Ever since Steve had rescued him and begun leading the Commandos, they both seemed so on edge. Like they were constantly walking on eggshells.And who knows, maybe it was them adjusting to all of the changes they’d undergone while separated. But it didn’t seem the same. It felt like long ago, when they were naive teenagers, new to any types of feelings. It reminded Bucky of that one day in 1934, when he was seventeen and Steve had just turned sixteen the day prior. Christmas Day, 1934. All Bucky could remember from that day was the light hitting Steve’s fragile frame and pale eyes so perfectly, his hair so neatly combed to the side, and his lips just seeming so kissable and amazing, and the way it took every ounce of patience not to pull him under their makeshift mistletoe and do what’d been yearning to do for a year or two prior and—Thats it. That’s what it reminded him of.





	December 24

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the christmas fic that I promised my followers ! ! It’s kinda shitty but i like it so please read it I have a wife and kids to feed

— December 24, 1941  
— Christmas Eve

“It’s so fucking cold today,” Steve complained as he entered his apartment, shaking and shivering, knowing the feeling all too well. God, he wished it were summer right now. 

“It’s cold every day, Stevie,” Bucky replied as he relaxed on their worn down couch reading the newspaper, “It’s Christmas Eve in Brooklyn.” 

“Can’t it just be warm for a day?” Steve continued.

“That’s what summer is for,” Bucky answered. Only then did he look up from the article he was reading, and stood up to look at his best friend. “But today is an important day.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, sarcasm gushing out of his words. He knew what Bucky was talking about, and as much as it drove him mad, he loved it. 

“Happy birthday, Stevie. You survived another whole year. For you, it’s an accomplishment.” 

“Not a very huge one.” 

Bucky scoffed. “Are you kidding? Between recovering from how the Depression royally fucked us over, your mother dying, and medical costs from you getting beat up in an alley every other day, I’d say we’re doing fine.”

“Whatever you say,” Steve rolled his eyes and turned away, heading to the kitchen for God knows what. Let it be known that Bucky thought it was adorable when Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Fine, guess you don’t want what I got you....” Bucky trailed off.

“You got me something? What is it?” Steve turned around.

Bucky revealed the item in his hand to be a leather–bound journal. A new one. Throughout the year Steve had been talking about wanting one, because sketching on loose papers caused everything to get lost. 

“Buck, you didn’t...” Steve took the journal into his own hands and was aghast for what seemed like a long time. Then his expression of shock quickly faded into a smile. Without another word, Steve pivoted on his heel and looked for a pencil. 

Steve spent the rest of that evening studying his past sketches; observing flaws and consequently correcting them in his new journal. Bucky didn’t mind. In fact, he’d rather have Steve do it all day, if that’s what made him happy. Because that’s all that Bucky wanted— for Steve to be happy. So he idly shuffled around their apartment, bored.

Until, well after dark, after snow had started to gently fall outside and Bucky could think of nothing else to do but go to bed, Steve spoke up.

“Buck, can I draw you?” Bucky didn’t hear him at first. So he repeated the question, louder this time around. 

“Oh, sure...” Bucky nervously answered. Steve had never asked to draw him before. So that’s what they did. Steve studied Bucky, putting effort into every minute detail. When he made a mistake, he erased the entire area and did it again, but better.

He never let Bucky see the final product. 

———

— September 6, 1942  
— Twenty–Fourth Date of the USO Tour

Steve was used to it by now. The cheers of the crowds as the showgirls sang the same song, show after show. And afterward, when men and women and all their children would rush backstage to get pictures and autographs from the man himself.

One day, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a scrawny little boy showed up with his parents. Steve was vaguely reminded of his old self; small frame, skinny, blonde hair, shining blue eyes. 

“Captain America,” the boy uttered, looking up to Steve in complete and utter awe. “How?”

“How what?” Steve asked him, his eyebrows furrowing in genuine confusion. 

“How?” The boy repeated, his expression unchanging. 

“Now, Billy...” his mother started. Steve expected her to continue, but she did nothing else but give a disappointed sigh. 

“Well, Billy,” Steve kneeled down and became level with Billy’s admiring stare, “my birthday isn’t July 4th for no reason.” He winked.

Billy’s eyes went wide, and he smiled. He didn’t say a word more. His mother made sure the three got a picture and an autograph and they swiftly moved on. 

Steve knew he would never hear from Billy again, but he was thinking about their interaction the rest of that night, and for the next few nights. It put a smile on his face every time. 

That is, until July 4 rolled around, and after the show in Philadelphia (because what better way to celebrate a patriotic holiday than in a patriotic city?), Steve was bombarded with the same message: “happy birthday.” He only ever told Billy; Steve presumed that Billy’s father, wherever he may be, had connections. 

He felt almost guilty about it, as if he were misleading an entire nation. But then he thought about how disappointed everyone would be if they found out how unpatriotic his real birthday was. Ultimately, he decided that things were fine as they were, and left it alone. 

———

— December 24, 1942  
— Fourty–Seventh Date of the USO Tour

Today was the last showcase of the year. The first showcase of next year would be January 6, but Steve couldn’t imagine putting up with a whole other year of it. August was his peak; he felt confident in himself. He had memorized his speech and could do it well. But after that, he began to hate it. Saying the same speech over again was repetitive and boring. It was almost as if he were a show monkey, constantly on display. So that’s what he sat back and drew as some pour soul had to drive him back to his Brooklyn apartment. 

Once he arrived there, he immediately dropped his bags to the floor. It all came back, then. Instantaneously, he found himself blinking back tears. He heard his own voice— and another familiar one— from a year ago, speaking.

“It’s so fucking cold today.”

“It’s cold every day, Stevie. It’s Christmas Eve in Brooklyn.” 

“Can’t it just be warm for a day?” 

“That’s what summer is for. But today is an important day.” 

“Yeah.”

“Happy birthday, Stevie. You survived another whole year. For you, it’s an accomplishment.” 

Steve let the conversation play out in his mind, wishing he could go back to simpler days and be there, be the old Steve, be with Bucky in the safety and privacy of their cozy, run–down apartment.

“Fine, guess you don’t want what I got you...” 

Steve snapped out of his memory, and immediately reached into his bag to pull out the journal. He opened it. God, he hadn’t looked into the first few sketches in so long. The feeling of the leather covers brushing against his fingertips was all too familiar.

That’s when he looked at his drawing of Bucky. Marked December 24, 1941. A year ago. No, it wasn’t good enough. It didn’t nearly serve justice to how rich his brunette hair was, or how translucent his eyes were, or the tiniest hint of a stubble growing on his chin and along his jawline. So Steve had to draw it all again from memory. And he was okay with that. 

———

— December 24, 1943  
— Christmas Eve

Steve was in his tent, his eyes focused on the contents of his leather journal. Hearty laughs could be heard very well outside around the fire, but truth be told, Steve could not care less.

Bucky sat around the fire, wisecracking with Tim “Dum Dum” Dugan and James “Monty” Montgomery. Everyone else was presumably asleep or uninterested, but that didn’t matter. 

Steve didn’t even notice when Bucky opened his tent and looked into what he was drawing. And Bucky didn’t notice the exchange between Monty and Dum Dum, which was limited to just a few whispers and nods. Because, let’s face it— it wouldn’t make sense of them not to figure it out. The blonde haired, blue eyed “dame” that had been waiting for Bucky back home when the war ended? The one with the curse and the blessing of being so outspoken, even if it never turned out well for her? Dum Dum and Monty would be fools if they couldn’t figure that one out.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky greeted, which startled Steve, making him quickly refrain the journal away from Bucky’s line of sight. He hoped Bucky wouldn’t take note of the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, something that happened every time Bucky called him ‘Stevie.’ 

Steve exhaled. Just because he was big and buff didn’t mean he never got startled. “You startled me.” 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Bucky looked down, careful of his words. Ever since Steve had rescued him and begun leading the Commandos, they both seemed so on edge. Like they were constantly walking on eggshells. 

And who knows, maybe it was them adjusting to all of the changes they’d undergone while separated. But it didn’t seem the same. It felt like long ago, when they were naive teenagers, new to any types of feelings. It reminded Bucky of that one day in 1934, when he was seventeen and Steve was sixteen. Christmas Day, 1934. All Bucky could remember from that day was the light hitting Steve’s fragile frame and pale eyes so perfectly, his hair so neatly combed to the side, and his lips just seeming so kissable and amazing, and the way it took every ounce of patience not to pull him under their makeshift mistletoe and do what’d been yearning to do for a year or two prior and— 

That was what it was. It reminded him of falling back in love with Steve. 

Oh shit. He fell back in love with Steve. 

“I just wanted to say,” Bucky hesitated, “happy birthday.” 

———

— July 4, 2017  
— Steve Rogers’ 99th ‘Birthday’

“Happy birthday, Cap,” Sam smiled, pushing a small cake toward Steve.

Seventy years ago, Steve would have never imagined being in such a beautiful place. The Wakandan palace. To try and put it in words would never accurately describe how breathtaking it was. 

Everything was so aligned; Steve was in Wakanda with Sam, one of his closest friends, and Natasha. The three had been on the run ever since Steve had a falling out with Tony (for lack of better term). Today there were to be fireworks to celebrate Steve’s birthday. 

But something was missing. It was as if there was a literal hole in Steve’s chest, the same feeling when you feel nervous or guilty about something. But that didn’t make sense. He had all of his closest friends, in the luxury of a palace of the most beautiful place in the world, on his birthday. What more could he ask for?

But then he realized. He was missing something. Bucky. God, how could he forget the one person that knew his real birthday? But that’s the thing; after Steve’s falling out with Tony and the revelation that Bucky was indeed the murderer of Maria and Howard Stark, he had been sent to Wakanda, where their top scientists would figure out a way to remove HYDRA’s trigger words from his mind. A few days ago, Steve had been contacted, saying that Bucky was to be released from the ice soon. 

———

— December 24, 2017  
— Steve Rogers’ Actual 99th Birthday

Bucky was released from cryogenics much later than planned. However, it did ensure that the trigger words were effectively removed from his brain. He was ultimately released December 2. 

But now it was December 24th, and Steve still remained in the Wakandan palace. King T’Challa had insisted that they stay there until they found another place to live. Although, if you asked any of the three of them, none of them would want to leave: Steve because he would never leave until he saw personally that Bucky was safe, Sam because he simply preferred the luxury of the palace over his D.C. residence, and Natasha because she had grown to be very good friends with General Okoye of the Dora Milaje, special warriors designated to protect the Wakandan royal family. 

Steve was in his room, drawing. Every Christmas Eve, he would look back to the same drawing he sketched in 1941. With each time it grew better and better, with more and more precision and detail. He didn’t like to think about the first time he drew it. He just liked to build on it. 

Now the drawing was finished. And now, he had decided, he would show Bucky. What better time to do so than when the man himself is knocking on your door?

Steve slammed the journal shut and opened the door. Bucky was standing there, silent. Of course, he invited Bucky in, and Bucky accepted without a word, closing the door behind him.

“Steve, there’s been something I’ve wanted to do,” Bucky hesitated. “For eighty-five years.” 

“What is it—“ Steve didn’t have time to think before suddenly everything went black for half of a second. Then he finally regained his senses, and Bucky’s lips were on his and it was everything he could have ever imagined. 

Bucky pulled away first, Steve still in a state of utter and complete shock. Being honest, he wanted to do it again, but he wouldn’t say it out loud. He was enveloped in adoration. 

Bucky only had one thing left to say. 

“Happy birthday.”


End file.
